


The Man He Really Was

by indigowild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Pining John, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, somewhere in Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigowild/pseuds/indigowild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daytime John is very different from Nighttime John. The thoughts he tries to ignore in the sunlight can't be controlled in the dark privacy of his own room.</p><p>(He accepts these feelings, knows they are there, but believes they wouldn't/couldn't be reciprocated. Silly boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man He Really Was

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first true attempt at writing a Johnlock fic, other than few dashed off prompt responses. To ease myself into it, I decided to take a previous fic I wrote for Daniel Sousa of Agent Carter and rewrite it for John.

John Watson is not a good man.

Oh, he tries to be. He always takes Mrs. Hudson’s rubbish out to the bins for her because he knows her hip has been getting worse. Before running out to the shops for milk and biscuits, he makes sure to check with her and see if there is anything she needs him to pick up, especially considering how much of her food ends up being eaten by him and Sherlock. When the weather whips up during the night and sunrise brings with it a coating of ice and snow, John is usually out in front of Speedy’s with a shovel before Mr. Chatterjee arrives. He helps Lestrade move not once but twice after his wife leaves him for the gym teacher, hefting boxes and wedging an overstuffed sofa through narrow doorways even when his shoulder begins to stiffen and ache.

During the daylight hours, he tries so hard. He is courteous, efficient, and determined, able to soothe ruffled tempers and coax open the doors that Sherlock’s impatience and abrasiveness to society in general have slammed shut. He appoints himself Sherlock’s minder, doing his best to keep him at some semblance of fed, hydrated, and rested despite his flatmate reverting to toddlerhood when those subjects are brought up. As the months go by, John makes gentle nudges to open that great mind to the people who make up their cases, to take on not only the puzzles that are the most interesting but to also see the value in solving the ones that are the most hurtful. Translating the complexities of the world of social behavior to the man who speaks seven languages and who can tell a man’s job by the wear on the sole of his shoes, John’s simple “a bit not good” carries all the weight of the Rosetta Stone.

And as John teaches, he dedicates himself to learning, trying to keep up with the dizzying, brilliant force that is Sherlock. Trying to see emotions and motives not in a person’s face, but in their clothing, their hair, and their possessions. Training himself to look not at what is present but at what is missing. His own deductions don’t even begin to approach the near exhaustive depths to which the consulting detective’s go, but the intense smile he is rewarded with when a comment of his illuminates a new idea for Sherlock makes him feel like he is more than just a tiny bit useful.

But when it's late and his daylight shell of jumper, plaid shirt, and jeans are discarded...

When he falls into his bed, exhausted and sore, and the darkness of the night blankets him...

Then, he is not a good man.

Not always.

Some nights, as he tries to lure his mind into sleep by reviewing the mundane details of his day, the thoughts come, unbidden. Amidst images of dashing through alleys and blood stained crime scenes comes a flash of mercurial eyes or the long curve of a pale neck. He immediately tries to block them out with thoughts of Mycroft’s latest boring lecture or an image of how Anderson walks around with his chest puffed out like a preening peacock. Usually this works, and he drops off into the protection of sleep, relieved.

But some nights when he's lying there almost too exhausted to drift off, he isn't able to fight them. And once they start, they flood through his mind, engulfing him in a restless heat.

Sherock’s long, smooth fingers, gliding across his hand as John brought him a cup of tea. Their heat left paths that he swore he could sense even hours later. He feels them tingling now .

The stark contrast of the smooth curve of the nape of his neck and the sinewy angles of the bare expanse of his back (yes, he'd looked, even as his mind panicked about what would happen if Sherlock did walk right out of his sheet in the middle of Buckingham Palace). It begged to be licked and nibbled, kissed until goosebumps rose, like the ones that were spreading across his forearms.

The open neck of his purple shirt and the glimpses of pale skin. His fingers would usually twitch at that thought, aching to undo the endless stretch of buttons below it.

The traces of his cologne, something like a bonfire and old leather, layered with Sherlock’s own scent of wool, lemongrass shampoo, and tea that drifted past him when they sat side by side at Scotland Yard poring over a victim’s financial documents. He'd had to take shallow calming breaths that day. Now he sucked in air with shaky inhalations.

The firm press of a chest against his shoulder as Sherlock leaned over him to see what John was writing on the blog. He was grateful that the rustle of Sherlock’s dressing gown as he returned to his desk had helped mask the small groan that escaped his lips. In his nighttime world though, there was nothing to hide his quickening breath and sighs...and no need to.

The maddening curve of his arse in those incredibly tailored black pants as he bent over Lestrade's desk to translate the Russian gang’s code, propped on his forearms with his nose nearly touching the photos. John had turned away quickly that day, walking briskly down to the men's room so he could wash his hands and face with cold water. Now, in his mind's eye he lingered, his gaze tracing down those legs and then back up to the perfect handholds Sherlock’s hips made. God, he ached.

His mouth, the perfect cupid’s bow above meeting the plump bottom lip below, a lushness that couldn't be ignored. He'd seen Sherlock once, slipping off those bloody expensive dress shoes one evening after a long cold day filled with hiking, climbing, and running in pursuit of a murderer, his full lips parting in a hushed moan of relief. John had grabbed a file with gory crime scene photos and sat with his face buried in it for the next ten minutes, grateful for the protection of his desk, ears burning. The sound echoed in his ears now, drowning out the rustling of his sheets and the cars on the streets outside. Sweat gathering along his forehead, his spine felt like it was on fire, a burning low in his gut.

Sherlock on his knees between John’s legs, bending down to undo the buckles pinning his legs and feet to the kidnapper’s chair, head bent and those wild black curls brushing against denim covered thighs. The moment slammed into him like a gut punch, a kaleidoscope of impressions exploding in his mind. Body heat, slightly shaking fingers encircling his calf, the tang of their sweat, Sherlock’s shoulder pressing against his knee, the whisper of his Belstaff, their breathing still ragged and loud, his ankles and wrists tugging uselessly against the leather straps as the adrenaline coursed through him. At the time he'd still been groggy and so relieved at being found, but now...

In the darkness, that was the moment he broke against.

At night, John was not a good man.

Sometimes, he was just...

... a man.

 


End file.
